


The Conspiracy

by TheLoveBugsy (YacheBerries), Unchained_Daisychain



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Longing, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Paul Is Dead Theory (The Beatles), Separation Angst, Slow Build, very gay and very complex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:41:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24329698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YacheBerries/pseuds/TheLoveBugsy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unchained_Daisychain/pseuds/Unchained_Daisychain
Summary: After a car accident on 9 November 1966, news about Paul McCartney’s death spreads like wildfire across newspaper headlines. To clear his head of the chaos, he spends some time in Scotland. But when his stay lasts longer than anticipated, John begins to wonder if Paul will ever return home, or continue to buy into his own fake death.
Relationships: John Lennon & Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 11
Kudos: 64





	The Conspiracy

**Author's Note:**

> this fic has been in the works for a while and we finally have the first chapter! 
> 
> it all started from [this semi-joke](https://hide-your-bugs-away.tumblr.com/post/189930818179/unchaineddaisychain-what-if-paul-had-perpetuated) (as most fics involving me do). the canonical timeline of events will be altered throughout the course of this fic to account for a crash that didn't happen irl, but we've done our best to do research and keep our story line consistent. there's been a Gay Thematic Chart and revised timeline and everything.
> 
> this one will certainly be a longer ride, and we hope you enjoy reading as much as we've enjoyed planning and writing.

**November 1966**

John lit his fifth cigarette, using them as hourglasses now more than anything. 

He sighed and rolled his shoulders, physically warding off the irritation creeping up his spine. Almost two hours now, though. 

“Where the fuck is ‘e?” John murmured into his cup of tea, lukewarm and on its way to cold before Paul would even arrive. The question seemed to reverberate out of the ceramic and throughout the empty house. 

After their long holiday together, Cynthia had wanted to take Julian to visit some family and gift everyone with ornate Spanish souvenirs. John had opted to stay home and rest from the traveling, but covertly divulged to Paul his return home and the rare opportunity for some privacy. He was dying to see his lover again.

If only he would bloody show.

Then again, this tardiness was probably a spiteful jab at John for even taking that trip to Malaga in the first place. Paul had never outwardly expressed any opposition to it, but John had seen in those hazel eyes the pain when they had last embraced each other—the “ _why can’t we have that?”_ But some days these hours stolen on a quiet weekend or in the studio were the only chances they had to see each other; so when Paul couldn’t even put the same consideration that John did into setting aside time, it grated his nerves.

His current impatience tangible, condensing on his mind like dew, John was surprised he had managed the entire trip without a crack in his complexion to speak of. Upon reflection, the weeks he spent away, coupled with the distance, seemed agonizing; ironic for what should've been a leisurely, relaxing vacation. Thoughts of Paul never strayed far, steadily building in his mind before toppling over with the immense amount of love and admiration he had for the man, all the more magnified by separation. Had Paul been within reach, he would have acted _(as Lennon always did)_ the moment his mind began to cave. However, John had to remind himself that there would be no familiar, warm house to run to in Spain; no infuriating, _tempting_ little smirks upon lips the moment the door opened.

John almost felt the need to wet his own lips at that mere thought. _Damn, how did I even last?_

Itching for a distraction, he intended to reach for the television remote, but found his fingers curling around the phone receiver on the end table instead. He chewed his lip as he contemplated his decision—wondered if he should just give it fifteen more minutes—with the shrill dial tone droning in his ear. Without allowing himself further thought, his middle finger circled around the rotary with muscle memory. 

He picked at the already-torn cuticle of his thumb while he counted the seconds of the ring. It stopped by the fourth.

The dying note of a G chord, then a terse, “‘Lo?”

“Hola, Georgie, cómo estás?”

He could hear the smile in his friend’s voice. “Johnny boy! Back from Spain, then, are we?”

“We are.” He sank more comfortably into the amiability and settee, tossed an arm along the back. 

“How was it, then?” 

“Very Spanish. They don’t tell you that in the brochure, though.”

“Sure they do,” George responded. “Just didn’t read the fine print, ye blind bastard.”

“Ah, tha’ must’ve been it.” He cleared his throat, ridding it of the jocularity in order to address the purpose of the call. “Listen, mate, you heard from Paul today?”

“Er, no, ‘aven’t spoke to ‘im.”

John rubbed a thumb over his eyelid in frustration, nerves pulsating beneath his fingertip. “Alright, yeah. That’s—alright.”

“You sure, John? Doesn’t sound it.”

He sighed and lazily pivoted his head to the doorway, as though expecting Paul to be aslant against the jamb with a complacent smirk. “Bastard’s jus’ operatin’ on his own time, as usual.”

“You’re a big boy, mate,” George teased. “‘M sure you know how to keep it up till he gets there.”

“Piss off, that’s not what it’s about,” John laughed. “And anyway not even the randiest bloke could stay hard for as long as he’s takin’.”

"Probably just takin’ ‘is sweet time gettin’ all dolled up for ye, John,” George went on. “We've all seen how he is.”

George did have a point; if the amount of time he and the others spent restlessly pacing around hotel suites taught him anything, it was that Paul liked to take his time to _look good_. Always the most put-together of the four of them, Paul lived his life as if there was an audience he needed to impress at every turn, even if a day's plans didn’t involve cameras or bright lights. Daft as it was, John did find this fixation a bit endearing, especially on the cherished mornings where the pair had shared a room, allowing him to observe Paul's adorable concentration up-close. However, waiting behind a closed door was still never a position John liked to be in.

"'S been two hours since he _should've_ been here, mate. If it's really about the get-up, this'd be a smashing new record for 'im."

"Aye, well, it’d suit you to ‘ave _a bit_ more patience. The lad's gotta figure out which trousers best match his shoes _an'_ your carpet."

Lifting an eyebrow, he smirked. “He’ll be disappointed to know I’ve shaved it this morning, then.”

George groaned. “That’s not the—”

The rest of his words fell away when a rapid knock sounded at the front door. 

Ears pricking like a dog’s, John sprang upright from his slouch and nearly jerked the phone from the end table. He leaned back in to slacken the cord and offer his friend an impatient goodbye: “‘Ey, we’ll chat later, George—ta-ra!” 

Without pause for response, John slammed the receiver back down.

His bare feet slapping against the floor like an anticipatory drumroll and his body narrowly dodging furniture in every room, he rushed to the front door. His fingers rummaged through his hair, either straightening the moptop or disheveling it further; he wasn’t sure which. 

His hand hesitated on the knob. For a split second he toyed with the idea of leaving Paul on the step for even a fraction of the time he had left John waiting. In the end his eagerness overpowered any impulse for revenge. The wait had been far too long, and John could always deliver any cynical sentiments by tongue. As he opened the door, he allowed some of them to slip through the widening crack: “Y’know, I got half a mind not to let you—”

The threat died on his lips when it faced the undeserving and wrinkled brow of his manager. 

He frowned. “Brian?”

John had seen his band manager exhibit several levels of composure over the years, however, this was entirely new given the context. Brian, despite his outfit and posture appearing as orderly as always, had stress clearly written across his features. He wore a tight-lipped frown, eyes wide and a few strands of misplaced hair hanging over his forehead. Unabashed worry wasn't uncommon to see on his busy manager, but this was an expression Brian saved for the workplace, when hearing news of bonfires or threats, not one John expected to encounter on his own doorstep.

A cleared throat and a few stray hairs smoothed back into place. “Terribly sorry to pop in like this, John.”

John sighed, his agitation exacerbated by every fresh face he saw or voice he heard that wasn’t Paul’s. “The fuck’re you doin’ ‘ere?

"John, before I can explain _anything_ , I must ask you to remain as calm as possible," Brian said by way of preamble. "This news will undoubtedly shock you, but I can at least assure you that any details I cannot elaborate on at this time will become clearer soon enough."

A pause lingered in the air; a silent request from Brian to be lent the ear of a man who so frequently tuned others out.

"Let's hear it, then." John leaned on the doorframe easily, arms crossing before his chest as if to keep the fluttering feeling of curiosity from spilling out and ruining his facade. "Must've been somethin' _real_ special if ye weren't patient enough to ring me about it fir—"

“Paul’s been in an accident.”

Another pause, but this one so weighty it stole the air in John’s lungs just to keep itself afloat. He frowned, surely having misheard. 

“What?”

“It—it’s nothing serious,” Brian added hastily. “Just some minor injuries as far as we know right now.” 

At every new calculated word, John’s stomach caved in on itself more and more. _Not again,_ his mind lamented… _not him._ “Where is he now?”

“He’s in hospital, we’ll round up the other lads an—”

But he didn’t stick around to hear the rest of that plan. With a deluge of thoughts rushing through his head, he strode back into the house, resolutely deciding, “I’ll drive myself.”

“John, please,” Brian implored, following behind with a voice as determined as his footsteps. “Despite what you may think, he’ll heal no sooner with you being there. I’d rather not have another accident on our hands from any erratic, emotional driving.”

He didn’t answer—mind split between maneuvering around the background noise and lending it half an ear for more valuable information on Paul’s condition. Perched on the arm of the settee, he quickly shoved on his shoes. 

While catching some of what was said, John couldn't find it in himself to be offended by Brian's insinuation about his driving, or the fact his polite band manager, usually aware of boundaries, had just entered his house uninvited. His mind was racing with only thoughts of….

“Are you listening, John?”

“What—yeah, I’m fuckin’ listening,” he snapped, and, grabbing his coat, made for the door with or without the man. “Let’s bloody go, then.”

Brian gave a cursory nod, visibly relieved at the cooperation.

* * *

The drive to Ringo’s offered John no sense of ease. 

With Brian at the wheel, the streets were approached in a cautious manner. John could tell there was an extra layer of awareness present in his manager's actions—posture erect, fingers curled tightly around the steering wheel, sight never averting from the road ahead; Brian was obviously heeding his own advice to not drive recklessly.

However, this pace only served to fuel John's anxiety rather than soothe it, the road feeling like molasses with every press of the brakes. George and Ringo's houses never felt so far away, as time and distance seemed to be all the more magnified by the words _Paul_ and _accident_ intertwining within his head. Why Brian insisted on picking them up, John didn't know, but he couldn't spare the thought to question it in the moment. Fear coiled within him, fingers tapping on his forearm in a nonsensical rhythm.

Suddenly Brian spoke, breaking the silence. "Not that I expect you to know, John, nor do I expect you to answer this if it makes you uncomfortable—"

"Go on," John muttered quickly. Brian's tip-toeing was beginning to grate on him, slipping into his speech as it did his driving.

"Do you have any idea where Paul could've been going? As you know, we didn't have anything scheduled for today," Brian's eyes didn't leave the road, but his jaw tightened, as if expecting his passenger to snap.

John offered him a dry chuckle instead. "As a matter a fact, I do. 'M surprised ye haven't put the pieces together yet.”

“Well, I never like to assume,” he answered quietly.

“He was gonna be payin’ me a visit,” John paused for a moment, knowing exactly what further words could imply.

However, Brian knew; he had _always_ known. “Cynthia and Julian out for a few days?”

John nodded mutely, all-too aware that such an action seemed a bit meek on his part—like a child being cornered by a parent and coaxed into a silent confession.

“He was late and I thought he was just—bein’ a dick about it. After the holiday with Cyn an’ all…,” he went on unthinkingly, the words tumbling out like papers in a stuffed letterbox. “Didn’t know he was on his way to hospital, though.” 

Another few moments of silence followed, the steady drone of the engine barely even registered.

"John, it's alright to be anxious…even a little impatient at times," Brian finally said in a low voice, almost a murmur. "But you shouldn't convince yourself that others are trying to hurt you just because you're feeling that way."

Peering out of the corner of his eye, John caught a sidelong glance from his manager, before attention was quickly turned back to road. Given any other context, John would’ve groaned at the chiding, maybe even shot back, commenting on Brian’s _own_ impatience just a few short months ago.

But as it were, he could scarcely offer a sound.

Shifting in his seat, he stroked a finger down the tuft of his sideboard. “Speed up, will ye?”

The accelerator creaked in response, and outside his window the scenery skirted by in an amalgam of concrete and greenery. 

With every word that he witnessed exchanged at the front door of Ringo’s home, John’s impatience festered like an angry sore. Both Ringo and Maureen were on the front step, the scene little more than a silent film to John from his secluded box-seat view inside the car. Expressions fit for theatre masks and comparable to those of John’s when he first heard the news. All of those minutes-hours ago when he learned the reason for Paul’s absence. When the expectations for his return home became as cluttered and unpacked as the suitcases he left by the door in his naïve excitement.

Before his body even first consulted his brain, John was leaning towards the driver’s seat and thrusting an unwavering hand on the horn. Three heads snapped in unison to the source of the shrill, obnoxious honking, but he held steady. It was enough to expedite the conversation—nods exchanged and a quick peck left to Mo’s cheek. 

Once Brian and Ringo began to approach the car, John elected to slouch back down into his seat, staring forward in disinterest as if nothing happened. Ringo sat himself behind their manager, an eyebrow raised, but without commenting on the hasty conclusion to their conversation.

Brian, however, did have something to say. "Was that necessary, John?" he sighed, shaking his head as he started up the car.

"Yes, it was."

From the backseat, there was a snicker. The incredulous look Brian shot Ringo almost made John himself laugh, but the sensation was caught in his throat, held in suspension by fear.

Fear with a taut, restrictive tether wrenching back every emotion that failed to buttress his anxieties. How desperately he wanted to participate in his expected laughter and clownery and react as sanguinely as perhaps Paul even would if the roles were reversed. Yet the coarse fibers of that tether niggled at him like a hair in the mouth. 

Cotton-mouthed and cotton-minded, John sat as a mere medium amongst the casual conversation fluttering around him. 

Fortunately their next stop at Kinfauns was accomplished in a more timely manner. Disinclined to suffer another affront on his ears, Brian this time did away with verbose explanations and instead enlightened George on the situation while walking him to the car. 

“—alright, yeah?” the tailend of George’s question squeezed inside with all the bulk of another passenger as he opened the door. 

“Minor injuries, but no further word than that,” the manager answered, two doors slamming in synchronicity. 

Now seated comfortably behind John, George patted the black upholstery by his head and jovially said, "Guess 'm finally seein' why the end to our chat was so abrupt, eh, Johnny?"

"Yeah, yeah," John muttered, refusing to spare a glance towards the backseat. He had almost forgotten about their previous conversation, the hour prior already feeling days away.

" _Your_ chat with John?" Ringo asked, sounding intrigued. "He lay on any car horns to get you to shut your gob?"

"Nah, but 'e did hang up on me," George said, feigning a woeful sigh. "The lad was missin' Paul so much that he rung me up for company."

"What an honor!"

“Till he tosses you away like a cheap whore,” he snorted. 

"I called to ask you a simple question, Harrison," John just about snarled. "Yer actin' like I left you at the altar."

George scoffed. "Ay, that's more like Paul an' you."

John narrowed his eyes and cooly turned to meet George's gaze, agitation fully displaced and cascading down the edges of his composure. "Think so, eh?"

"I know you miss 'im, mate,” he tried, “but there's no reason to be a dick about it.”

 _"I'm_ being a dick about it?"

"Boys, please give it a rest," Brian interjected with a sigh. "The last thing Paul will want to see when we arrive is the both of you at one another's throats."

John shifted, turning away from George while his mind latched onto a select few of Brian's words. The implication that Paul would be conscious and able to greet them was a sobering thought, the tightness clutching at his chest easing up a bit.

After a beat, Ringo, forever a peacekeeper, asked, “So why couldn’t you just phone us about all this, Brian?”

“This isn’t really a visit, is it? Just a rehearsal,” George joked. “Broken bones or not, that next LP’s gettin’ made if we gotta crowd round Paul’s hospital bed to do it.”

Bypassing his comment, Brian answered, “Firstly I didn’t want to worry anyone—”

“‘Cos showin’ up at my door all wide-eyed an’ nervous made me feel loads better,” John scoffed.

“And _secondly,”_ he continued emphatically, “it’s always easier to round you boys up myself than it is to ensure you sneak in on your own terms. Never can judge the media storms in these situations.”

“Not much to report on, is there?” Ringo asked.

Brian stretched his neck as though in a futile attempt to relieve the tension. “I don’t believe so, but better safe than sorry.”

* * *

It was too easy to make a passing joke about all four Beatles within one hospital, however, there seemed to be a unanimous regard for Brian that halted any commentary. He occasionally caught each of their eyes, especially John's, as a silent request to save any cynicism for a later time.

Not that John needed to be reminded, or could even create a coherent thought about anything other than Paul as they approached his vicinity. 

Up flights of stairs and down sickly corridors they were led by a head nurse to his room. John averted his eyes from the scenes playing out in each passing room. Kept his shoulders straight and strong to ward off the malaise crawling up his spine like a parasite.

After the snowballing of anticipation, they finally reached the room.

Perched on the side of the hospital bed, Paul’s gaze shifted from the doctor’s to his triad of bandmates and manager entering the room. Spacey, vacant eyes met John’s own, and a bristle of fear pierced him before he watched clarity and realization settle. Then Paul smiled, so lively and natural that its simple reassurance was ineffable—especially in light of the few visible injuries his lover had endured. 

Around his wrist a beige bandage was securely wrapped. His shirt was unbuttoned and hanging loose from his shoulders, seemingly left open from some physical examination. It offered John a glimpse of the fresh cuts and bruises mottling his chest. 

He swallowed thickly, eyes unwavering on Paul’s even as the doctor pivoted on his heels.

“And if it isn’t the rest of the band,” he greeted with a warm smile. “Hello, gentlemen.”

“How’s our bassist, Doc?” George asked, skirting the formalities.

“Well, he’s faring pretty well. Had quite the accident, didn’t he? But fortunately not too many injuries sustained given the circumstances.” 

John crossed his arms over his chest, caging himself from rushing to Paul’s bedside. “What exactly were the circumstances?”

“I’ll let Mr. McCartney be the one to catch you up on that. I’ll give you lads some time now.” He retrieved his clipboard from the foot of the bed and turned to his patient. “The nurse will be back shortly.”

Paul nodded politely, buttoning his shirt halfway, with a single hand, as the doctor exited the room. “All’a you didn’t have to come,” he told them, fingers never slowing on his shirt as though to prove help was unnecessary. “Just had a bump-up, nothing to worry about.”

 _Nothing to worry about, my arse,_ John thought to himself, jaw tightening to prevent the words from slipping out. The injuries littering Paul's chest resembled cruel confetti in his mind, seared into his vision even with Paul's shirt beginning to close.

With additional room, George made himself comfortable and extended his lanky frame across the foot of the hospital bed. Chin cradled in hand, he asked, “Another moped accident?”

“Not this time,” Paul chuckled. “Car came outta bloody nowhere and crashed into my side. Totalled the Aston, but ‘m just glad he wasn’t goin’ much faster, y’know?”

A fatherly concern in the crease of his brow, Brian asked, “How’re you feeling?”

“Got a couple scrapes and bruises, sprained wrist. Doctor said maybe some whiplash, too.”

“Fuckin’ hell, we’re gonna have to get you an understudy,” Ringo joked. “Too accident-prone, you are.”

“Yeah.” He looked down, with careful, slender fingers arched around his left wrist. “He could fill in for me till the wrist heals.”

“Did they say how long that may be?”

John narrowed his eyes at Brian’s question. He couldn’t help but hear a greater concern over their contract than the physical state of their bassist. Considering the details of the accident, they were lucky Paul was coherent and speaking. How soon they could thrust a bass guitar into his hands was the last thing on John’s mind.

“Coupla weeks.” With a dismissive wave of his uninjured wrist, Paul shook his head. “But hey, you lot take off now. Didn’t need ya worryin’ yourselves in the first place.”

"Aye, you're stuck with us, mate. Besides, worryin's an understatement," George scoffed, gesturing to John with the tilt of his head. "You wouldn't believe how this one has been!"

"Oh?"

"Yeah, the lad missed ya so much that he rung me up for a bit of company!"

Snapping from Paul's gaze, knowing all too well where this was leading, John bore holes into the side of George's face with a sharp glare. He failed to object, words trapped in his throat from the lack of speaking.

"Johnny was really lookin' forward to your visit, so when you didn't show on time, he gives me a call!" George continued, feigning another sigh. "But the second he gets a knock on the door, I get hung up on… _mid-sentence_ , at that! Thought 'e was gonna open the door, see you, drag you in, and have a nice snog or somethin'. But nah, he got Brian instead. An' he was quiet and worried the whole ride here."

John began to open his mouth, fully prepared to defend his actions, especially before Brian chimed in. If George insisted on making him look like an impatient fool in front of everyone, then he could respond with as scathing of a tongue as he wished.

However, any retort he had planned was cut short, dying before it even passed his lips.

Paul promptly laughed; a familiar, angelic sound to John's ears, and one he had been starved of for weeks. Lifting his uninjured hand to shyly cover his mouth, laughs suppressed into giggles thanks to a bitten lip, hazel eyes sparkled as they met John's own. "John, did you really do that to poor George?"

There was an expectant pause—everyone allowing for John to respond.

"I…uh, I did," John answered dumbly, words scattering from him like minnows in a pond. "Yeah…I did."

George grinned, gently patting John's shoulder. "Y'know I don't hold it against you, John, alright? Just thought Paul'd like to hear how much ye missed 'im."

"Funny way to go about that," John murmured, his attention focused on the tip of a pinky finger that slipped in between Paul's teeth. Clearing his throat, he requested, “Give us a minute alone, won’t you?” 

While the others headed for the door, John stayed put by Paul’s hospital bed. The weight of the moment they were being granted already felt tangible; a few steps remaining before an end to weeks of separation. Giddiness had nudged its way through the swirl of fear within John, and the growing smile on his lover's lips reassured him that the anticipation was mutual.

"You boys better not do anything…too funny while we're gone," their manager warned, speaking slowly. "We're still in a hospital, and a nurse could come in at any minute."

"Aw, Brian, give 'em a break," Ringo chuckled. "I don't think they were plannin' on anything."

"Yeah, 's not like they can even do much with Paul's wrist like that," George added, an eyebrow wiggle accentuating his statement.

Paul smirked and reclined against the neatly-made bedding, making himself more comfortable. “I’ve got two of ‘em, don’t I?”

Brian shook his head, sparing one more wary glance in John's direction before he turned to head out. With George and Ringo at his heels, he began to talk to them in a low voice, probably about stifling any giggles or avoiding suspicious people. John didn't know; their conversation was already failing to reach his ears as the reality of his proximity to Paul settled in.

When the door closed, a silence as white as the walls blanketed them for a moment. Until now, John hadn’t realized how reticent he was since their arrival. The goading from George and sight of Paul cheerful and, for the most part, unharmed had lured him crack by crack from his shell. But the events of the day had crescendoed with an intensity that he still couldn’t yet shake from his bones. 

Eternally perceptive where John was concerned, Paul took notice. “You alright?” 

He breathed a laugh. “I think I should be askin’ _you_ that.”

“Aye, but I’m not the one standin’ there like I’ve seen a ghost.”

“Can’t say you didn’t give me a scare,” he joked, a hand squeezing Paul’s knee as he joined him on the bed. “I’m sure you were eager to see me, love, but no need to cause an accident.”

“‘Ey, I told you it wasn’t my fault.” Smiling, he shoved John’s shoulder, adding more sincerely, “I am happy to see you, though.”

“I’m happy to see you, too. And not in too bad of shape.”

Gently John touched his thumb to a narrow cut above the arch of Paul’s eyebrow. At one point during the trip over, Ringo had joked that the bruises would only make him look more rugged. But the delicacy of his skin and features never lingered far beneath the injuries, in fact only underscoring their unfamiliarity.

“Yeah, no chipped teeth this time,” Paul assured with a demonstrative smile. 

Last December a reckless mopeding accident had already left Paul with a self-confidence as cracked as his front tooth. More than the injuries, the frequency of them unsettled John. At least he had found his way to a hospital this time and John could affirm his safety with his own eyes.

“Bloody hell, McCartney.”

Catching John’s hand in his own, Paul planted a kiss to his knuckles. An obvious effort to distract from the glaring issue. “Enough about me now, tell me about your holiday.”

John chuckled dryly. "Eh? Well, you know, it was...Spain. We've all been there, you remember what it's like."

"'Course I know what it's like. I was just wonderin' if it was any different at all." Paul gave a small sigh as he continued, "Y'know, since it was an actual vacation for you this time. No concerts or restrictions or anythin'."

John caught onto the way Paul's voice dropped a bit as he spoke. There was an all-too familiar, however subtle, look of hurt in his eyes, gaze drifting from John's and settling onto their hands.

"Still got dragged around a fair bit," John adjusted himself to meet his eyes again, a thumb gently traveling over the ridges of Paul's knuckles. "Didn't have a roommate diggin' through me suitcase every day to find something to wear, though."

All at once, Paul's uncertainty seemed to wash away. A tidal wave of giggles overcame him as cheeks flushed and a smile began to grow. "Wasn't _every_ day, love, just one time!"

John smirked, clearing his throat as he attempted a light impersonation of his lover. " _'Oh, John! Forgot to pack somethin' a little more casual for the tour. Hope you don't mind me borrowin' yer jacket!'_ " He momentarily let go of Paul's hand to grip the lapels of his own coat, flashing Paul a charming grin as he posed.

"Didn't think you minded, love. Thought you liked how I looked in that jacket—told me yourself!" Paul laughed.

“Dead stunning. But you weren’t supposed to pull it off better than me,” he answered with a smirk, and leaned in for a kiss that had been a suppressed urge since he stepped foot into the room. 

A smile stretched between them as Paul lifted his bandaged hand to John’s cheek. After weeks apart and an anxiety that seemed eternal, the contact was bliss. The rough texture of the bandage was foreign to John's skin, but the familiar brush of soft fingertips, unrestrained and tender, was enough to pull a tiny sigh from his lips. 

The impatience from that morning leaching out of him in languid rivulets, he tilted his head for a deeper kiss. His own hands fluttered in indecision, desperate to touch but hesitant to harm. As though sensing his uncertainty, Paul guided John’s hand to his hip, where the fingers curled and inched up his shirt. 

Just as John neared the smooth whisper of his skin, three startling knocks sounded at the door. John quickly broke the kiss before rising to his feet and slumping into the flower-printed armchair. No sooner had his arse met the seat than a small middle-aged nurse entered the room. He gritted his teeth in frustration at the interruption.

Paul had already straightened himself, head turned towards John as if the pair were merely partaking in casual conversation. The speed at which his lover was able to regain composure never failed to amaze John, but he still felt a victorious, bold sensation churn within him. Paul's cheeks were still dusted a light shade of pink, and the corners of his lips were quirked into a gentle smile; evidence of the affection they had just gotten away with.

“Hello, Mr. McCartney,” greeted the nurse with a maternal pleasantness. “My, oh my, looking a bit worse for wear today, are we? That bump-up did quite a number on you.” 

Smirking to himself, John breathed a laugh. If only she knew how culpable he also was for Paul’s current state of disarray. From the bed hazel eyes silently scolded him before resettling on the nurse.

“A bit,” he murmured sheepishly.

“Well, I’m just going to give that cut on your side some more attention, alright?”

“The what?” John asked, frowning. “You got a cut on your side, too?”

Paul shrugged, removed his shirt yet again. “Yeah, just a little deeper than the others, but nothing too bad.”

With a frown he hauled himself from the chair. “Let’s see it.”

"It's just another scratch, if anythin'," he chuckled lightly. Fixing John with an earnest gaze, he adjusted himself for examination.

John rounded the hospital bed for a better view of the bloody gauze being peeled from Paul’s right side, the skin latching on defiantly. He stood a slight ways back in order to give the nurse ample room, but close enough to see the injury for himself. A familiar, sinking feeling began to stir within him, and when the gash was revealed, John's jaw nearly dropped to the floor.

"Bloody hell, Paul, _'just a scratch'?"_

"Aye, feels it at least," Paul said with a strained smile, his good hand fisted in the hospital sheets and knuckles just as pale. 

Jagged-edged and roughly three inches in length, the laceration had already received an even row of stitches. By far it was the deepest cut John had seen on his body yet. The ease with which Paul had concealed it from them only left him to wonder what more there was to discover. He was growing weary of these surprises.

Visibly Paul flinched as the nurse dabbed an alcohol-soaked cotton ball around the oozing, discolored borders. Blue-black on delicate ivory skin—a stark contrast that demanded attention. Similar to how he had felt when he first entered the room, John had to suppress the urge to _act._ To surge forward, throwing aside the hospital sheets twisted within Paul's fingers in order to replace them with his own hand, encouraging him to squeeze with all of his might.

"Glad we got this cut all patched up for you when we did," the nurse mused. Her ministrations began to slow once an adequate amount of disinfectant was applied to the edges of the cut. "You feeling alright, Mr. McCartney?"

"Hm? Yes, yes…quite alright, in fact," Paul murmured.

Offering a timely distraction he seemed to crave, the door opened once again. Returned from their short trip, Brian, George, and Ringo filed back into the room. Whatever convivial conversation had been occuring ceased at the sight of the small gathering around Paul’s exposed and injured side.

“Everything alright?” Brian questioned hesitantly.

Paul breathed a shallow laugh. “You just missed the answer.”

“Humpty Dumpty here’s gettin’ patched back up,” John answered, the stitches glaring at him like slitted, intimidating eyes. “Got more knocked round than he let on.”

“Nothing too serious, I hope,” their manager fretted, filling another gap in the circle as he stepped closer. At the sight of the wound, his eyebrows raised in concern.

“Nah, they’ve taken good care of me,” Paul assured with a charming smile to the nurse.

“Flattery will only get you a longer stay, Mr. McCartney,” she responded, gathering all of her equipment. “And speaking of, the doctor asks that you _do_ stay overnight so we can keep an eye on this cut.”

Frowning, he sat upright. “Is it not possible to treat at home?”

“We wouldn’t want it to get infected now, would we?”

“I think she’s callin’ you dirty,” George quipped.

Good-naturedly, she swatted him with an unused cloth. “Hardly. Just a nastier cut, that one.”

“Why don’t you take advantage of the rest, Paul?” Brian insisted. “I’d feel much more comfortable if you stayed just one night to make sure nothing else comes up.”

“An’ I can keep you company,” John offered casually. “Make sure everything is to doctor’s orders.”

If he had to squeeze into the hospital bed next to Paul, they were going to have their night together. It wasn’t quite what they had planned, but it was enough. Guilt-ridden thoughts would only rob John of sleep should he return home now. 

“Aw, see, such good mates you lot are,” the nurse left them with, before smiling and granting them some privacy. 

"Yeah, John's a _real_ good mate!" Ringo laughed.

Brian frowned, obviously uncomfortable with the notion. "John, you do realize you'll be here _all night,_ correct? And you won't have a ride home until the next day?"

"I think that's the idea," George chuckled with a nudge to their manager's shoulder.

Despite Brian's concerns about transportation, John knew what was being left unspoken; words lingering in the air despite never being said. _"You do realize you'll be in a public facility with Paul all night, correct?"_

Paul, almost as if reading Brian's expression and buying into his worries, spoke up. "You really don't have to stay, John. Don't want you gettin' sore sleeping in a chair all night."

John scoffed to himself. "Don't care even if I had to sit on burning coals for the rest of the night, Paul—I'm stayin' here with you."

Paul's lips parted in surprise at the sudden confession. Vaguely, John realized what a daft statement that was to say out loud, with two of his mates and his _manager_ still in the room, no less. John didn't even need to turn to see their expressions; he knew Brian could've been anything from appalled to softened. With a fond smile, his gaze flicked from Paul's lips to his eyes, making sure the sincerity was palpable.

"Aww, let 'em have this, Brian!" George sighed. "With the way Johnny's talkin', they might be making some love… _songs_ tonight! At least they'll be productive."

With a genuine laugh and a slight blush dusting his cheeks, Paul joined in. "Dunno about that—if we did, John would have to do the writin', with my wrist an' all."

“Never mind that, we’ll figure out where to go from here,” Brian assured. “Just get some rest for now.”

With the promise of returning tomorrow morning to drive them back home, he left with George and Ringo. John was silently grateful for the poise with which their manager handled these situations. Always the first to roll up his sleeves and mitigate the stress. They couldn’t do it on their own.

Worries steadily chipping away, now John could finally unwind a bit himself with Paul safe at his side.

* * *

The steady beep of monitors and busy foot traffic in the hall reminded them to employ caution. So far, John hadn’t been forced to dash from the bed to his humble sleeping arrangement of the armchair. Initially, he debated if he should even attempt to squeeze in at all, concerned about upsetting any of Paul’s injuries. Not to mention the bed rivaled the one from his youth in terms of size, and they weren’t teenagers anymore. But Paul’s eyes had pleaded like a bleeding heart. Mindful of every placement of his limbs, John had acquiesced.

“Not exactly how I imagined us spending tonight together,” he murmured presently, watching his fingers meander through Paul’s hair with tired eyes. 

“Yeah,” he answered with a hushed laugh. “Sorry all this happened.”

“It’s not your fault. ‘M just glad yer okay.”

Paul lifted his eyes to him, hazed from the painkillers but brimming with earnestness. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“Nothing to make up for.” John kissed the top of his head. “We’ll have plenty of days to spend together once you’re better.”

“Yeah…those just feel few and far between sometimes.”

With the Bible Belt at their throats earlier in the year and now this, it was seeming as though they couldn’t catch a break. But with the cessation of touring, John had higher hopes for the future. Life won’t always be fans tearing at their clothes while they shove into cabs. For once since the start of their careers, they could slow down and approach their music, and personal lives, more methodically. 

"We'll make time, we always have." Letting his hand fall from Paul's hair to his face, John traced his cheekbone with a tender thumb. "Even if I gotta stand outside yer window, hollerin' for you to let me in."

Paul smiled at that, turning his face further into John's hand. "I've got a front door, love. Doorbell an' everything."

"Wouldn't want to disturb the neighbors, though," John said, feigning a small gasp. "Poundin' on your door, ringin' your doorbell—I'd make some _awful_ noise!"

"An' you yellin' outside my window _wouldn't_ be awful noise?" Paul giggled, vibrations coursing through John's palm like ripples in water.

"No, 'cos I'd be quiet instead, whisperin' real low for you." Leaning in, John gently nuzzled Paul's other cheek, nosing a trail to his ear. " _'Oh, Paul! Please let me in! I've been dyin' for a shag—I mean, I've been dyin' to see you, an' maybe get your autograph?'_ "

"An' what if I didn't let you in?"

"Why, I'd perch myself on yer windowsill, of course!" John chuckled, a smile pressed to Paul's jaw. "Serenade you, perhaps, granted I got a guitar with me."

"An' what if you don't have a guitar?" Paul giggled, reveling in the silliness of the scenario as much as the kisses John pressed to his ear.

"Well, I've still got the glass and me fingers, don't I?" John lifted his hand from Paul's cheek to idly tap on the headboard in a steady rhythm. "Not as good as Ringo would be, though. Might bring 'im with me."

Paul giggled even more, turning his face towards John's in an attempt to muffle himself against his cheek. John leaned into the shape of his laughter against his skin. Even though they no longer fit in the bed like teenagers, he still felt like one with the familiar giddiness, crowding as much conversation into the nighttime as possible. When silence enfolded them again, John’s thoughts no longer filled its emptiness. Instead, he listened to the slow breathing at his ear and synchronized it with his own. 

"God, I missed you, John," Paul broke in quietly.

John blinked, pulling away a fraction to meet Paul's eyes. Even in the darkness, he could see soberness in those hazel eyes; half-lidded from sedatives, but as sincere as they could ever be.

“I missed you too.” Tenderly, he left a lingering kiss on Paul’s lips. “I won’t be goin’ anywhere again any time soon.”

“Me neither,” Paul answered, voice unwavering with assurance. 

Lips tight, John smoothed his thumb along the divot beneath Paul’s bottom lip. Cognizant of the fact that he meant more than a measly holiday in Spain, that promise was enough to guarantee John a restful night’s sleep. One that he could visibly see Paul was in desperate need of himself. 

“You should probably sleep now.”

Paul sighed. “Yeah.”

“I’ll be over here, let me know if you need anything.”

John leaned down for another kiss, this time held close by a hand tangled in the back of his hair. The day’s emotions afforded it more desperation than usual. For a second he considered bundling back into the tiny bed with him, doctors and nurses be damned. But it was only one night apart. They could bear that.

“Good night,” Paul whispered against his lips. “And thank you for staying.”

“Always, love. Gotta make sure these nurses don’t try anything funny while yer drugged up.”

Paul rolled his eyes but smiled, almost tiredly enough to prove his point.

John slumped uncomfortably in the stiff armchair and propped his feet on the edge of Paul’s bed. Surely his back and neck would berate him in the morning for it. Closing his eyes, he was just drifting into sleep when he felt a touch on his leg. His eyes peeled open, readjusting in the dark. The fingers peeking from the wrap around Paul’s hand and wrist were delicately curled around John’s ankle, occasionally twitching against the knobby bones. His heart lurched at the sight—at the need to be connected, even subconsciously.

Smiling, John subtly inched himself closer to the touch before shutting his eyes again.

* * *

Opposed to sunlight filtering into the room, a gentle squeeze to his ankle signaled that morning had come. John blinked, processing the foreign surroundings until his gaze settled on Paul, fingers still secure around him.

At the sight of John conscious, Paul's smile widened a little more; bright and the ideal substitute for a sunrise. "Mornin', Johnny. Sleep well?"

"I'd like to think so," John chuckled, straightening himself in the chair and fingers flexing over the armrests. "How about you?"

"Pretty well, all things considered. Don't think anyone paid us a visit last night, unless we both somehow slept through it." With a small laugh and a brush of a thumb to the knot in John's ankle, Paul continued, "Just woke up a few minutes ago—the hallway outside is startin' to get some traffic again."

"What time is it?"

"It's around six. Thought I'd wake you up a little early so you could…y'know, adjust yourself." 

Paul gestured with his eyes to John's feet, still propped up by his side. However, words betrayed actions, as he continued to run soothing fingers across the bottom of his shin. Had John been in a slightly different state of consciousness, it may have pulled a small sigh from him, the tender gesture still warming his heart to no end. At least now, his cheekiness was in full function.

"Yer makin' it pretty hard to, love."

Paul laughed, playfully swatting at John's feet. He finally complied in lifting them off the side of the bed, eyes not leaving Paul's as he fixed him with a smirk.

When the fondness didn't seem to leave Paul's gaze, John pressed him a little further in an attempt to fuel his own. "Any other reason you woke me up? I thought you liked watching me sleep."

"'Course I do!" Paul's cheeks began to redden a little, early morning fluster settling in. "It's just…different not being able to reach out and touch you in the morning. At least not your face, y'know?"

“Not keen on touching my feet?” Swinging them back on the bedside, John swayed them back and forth as if to entice, but Paul scrunched his nose in distaste. “I thought you’d fancy ‘em a bit more after all those years toppin’ an’ tailin’.” 

“I take it you never saw me sleepin’ with my back to ‘em, then.”

“To resist the temptation, clearly.”

With a grin he shoved John’s feet away as they wiggled incessantly nearer. In some sense, it was as normal of a morning for them as any. The flesh-colored bandages seemed to blend more and more with Paul’s skin, far off in the back of John’s mind. They snickered and bantered as though the hospital room were just another drab hotel suite. 

In the middle of their repartee, a faint tap sounded at the door.

Chuckling, Paul answered, “Come in!” 

“What’s the magic word?” John demanded, bare feet slapping the tiled floor as he resituated himself again.

A smiling young nurse cracked open the door. From the minute opening, a whisper of steam filtered into the room. “Brekky?” she ventured, stepping further into the room to show the breakfast tray balanced in her hand.

Stomach voicing its interest, he nodded. “It most certainly is.”

Paul propped himself up in bed, wincing slightly despite his best efforts of stoicism. Within a second John was at his side, hunger forgotten. He cushioned Paul’s back with an ample amount of pillows and ensured all of his wounds were undisturbed. The crooked sneer of that gash on his side still disconcerted John; they would have to keep an eye on that one.

Paul jokingly offered him a sausage link as gratuity before enjoying the rest of his meal. While he did so, John provided his company at the foot of the bed, occasionally nicking a bite or two of toast and eggs. Despite his protests, Paul divvied up the food evenly for both of them to enjoy. Idle chatter suffused the air along with the tin of silverware on porcelain plates. 

When his appetite was sated, Paul grabbed the newspaper folded alongside his plate to pore over as he finished his tea. John cleared the empty tray from his lap before his injured lover attempted as such himself, like his fastidiousness would demand. Undoubtedly, that would become common practice for their foreseeable future.

Snickering to himself, John began, “Guess I’ll have to be yer personal slave for—”

Upon turning back around, however, he froze, leery and uneasy.

“What?” he asked at the numbed expression on Paul’s face. A vacant stare ate away at the front page of the paper like moths. 

Voice as hushed as the beat of their wings, he answered, “They think I’m dead.”

Stupidly, John blinked at him. “Sorry?”

Paul silently passed him the newspaper, but without his glasses the small words blurred like smudged ink. Even so, the bold headline stood out on the page as eerily as an epitaph. 

**BEATLE PAUL MCCARTNEY DEAD AT 24 FROM CAR CRASH**

Pictured beneath it, in black and white that spoke as loudly as any color, was the crash site. Previously ignorant to the damage done, John gaped at the wreckage as though he could feel the impact. Shattered windscreen; passenger door buckled inward like a deformed, metallic rictus; wheels turned only in the direction of devastation. His blood chilled with all the horror of stepping into a graveyard. 

“I don’t understand,” he murmured, slowly shaking his head.

“What’s it say?” Paul asked. “I didn’t even read it yet.”

With an overwhelming sense of surreality John read aloud the circumstances of Paul’s “death”, only occasionally registering certain phrases himself. _Rushed to hospital,_ and _pronounced dead hours later,_ and _fatal crash._ Even as he reached the last word of the article, he still couldn’t fathom how such a misunderstanding could happen.

In a dark, repressed corner of his mind, John realized that this was the scenario he had initially envisioned upon first being informed of the crash by Brian, and presumably what George and Ringo had surmised as well. However incorrect it was in the present, it was still a very possible outcome, and one too close to being reality.

John would've probably fallen down the spiral of yesterday's thoughts had it not been for a soft noise beside him.

Quiet laughter began to bubble from the injured musician—a hearty testament to the survival that headlines attempted to negate. Louder and louder, until Paul exclaimed, “It’s absolute rubbish!”

“I can’t believe they printed this,” John said with disbelief. “And _The Times_ at that.”

Had it been a cheap paper, such an erroneous article wouldn’t have surprised him at all—cheap papers print cheap stories. Undoubtedly, however, reputable newspapers had caught wind of some rubbish tabloid’s rumor and ran with it. The contagion of Paul’s laughter gripped John, and he soon found himself chuckling at the absurdity too. 

"I guess you could say they're _dead_ wrong!" Paul finally managed to snicker between laughs.

Clearing his throat, John leaned forward, holding his fist before Paul in a mock attempt of a reporter's microphone. "Mr. McCartney, I must ask if the rumors are really true—are you dead?"

"I'm afraid so, Johnny," Paul responded, attempting to keep a straight face as he spoke in his familiar, low PR tone. "I was devastated by the news. But it was in the paper, y'know? Gotta believe that."

“And will there be a funeral?” John continued seriously, microphone shifting furiously between them.

He simpered teasingly. “Well, you’ll have to read next week’s paper to find out.”

The serious expression on John's face broke as he grinned, resting his forehead on Paul's shoulder in an attempt to hide it. He felt his heart rate begin to settle, finding comfort and solace in the fact that Paul was giggling and very much alive beside him.

Never one to joke about career-threatening news, however, was their manager. 

As the door to Paul’s room swung open, their heads spun to see Brian barging in, even more stressed than when he arrived at John’s doorstep the previous day. His tie hung loosely around his neck in a similar way for which John was often chided, and the veiny redness around his eyes spoke of a restless night’s sleep.

Closing the door behind him, he glanced at the newspaper on the bed and sighed. “Oh Christ, I see you’ve heard, then.”

John picked up the paper and tossed it to the foot of the bed. The front page had already made its point. “What’s all this about, Brian?” 

“I’ve got as much of a clue as you,” he answered, pacing as much as the cramped room would permit, “but I asked the staff not to comment on the matter until we resolve this. We can’t risk things escalating further.”

"I think things have pretty much escalated as much as they can," Paul murmured, straightening himself in bed for their manager's presence. "I mean, they think I'm dead."

"Didn't think you'd be here this early," John chuckled. "Newsboy wake you up?"

"Evidently, he did in this case," Brian muttered flatly. Turning his attention on Paul, he continued, “We’re gonna need to get you boys in the studio as quickly as possible. How long did they say your wrist would need to heal?”

"They said it would be a few weeks," Paul answered with a weak, demonstrative flex of his fingers upon the sheets. "But the studio? Why there?"

"Well, I figured it would be a reasonable place for us to regroup and the sooner we—"

"Paul can't even play right now," John cut in, protectiveness beginning to creep into his voice again. "He shouldn't have to be there at all if he's recovering."

"Yeah, I was hopin' that I could just go home, at least for today," Out of the corner of his eye, John caught a glance from his lover. "Just for some…privacy, y'know?"

Brian sighed, distractedly running a hand through his stress-mussed hair. "I…I'm afraid going home might not be an option at the moment, Paul."

John narrowed his eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that when a Beatle 'dies', there's going to be press and fans swarming his house, demanding to know the truth."

John hadn’t even considered the media maelstrom that would accompany those headlines. Young fans regularly bawled and squealed when all of them were alive and well on stage. He couldn’t even imagine the pandemonium now that false news of a Beatle’s death had circulated. 

"Are you saying my house is blockaded right now?" Paul asked through a nervous laugh.

Lips tight, Brian nodded. “Mal was over there earlier and said it was a bloody nightmare. We’ll have to figure something else out for the time being.”

"Paul can stay with me," John said defiantly. 

"John, that really isn't necessary—"

"He was going to stay at my place before all this began anyway," John continued, smirking at Paul and leaning on the bed with a forearm on the mattress. "Weren't you, love?"

He chuckled, but quickly sobered. “Yeah, but won’t they be there too?”

“It seems their attention is zeroed in on just you at the moment,” Brian informed him.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Paul muttered with the bridge of his nose pinched between two fingers. “I’ll stay with John a few days, then. Till we get this sorted at least.”

Brian nodded cursorily. “Right, well, I’ll go bring the car round back so we can sneak you out of here.”

“Ta, Brian.”

Once their manager left to commence the next course of action, John and Paul gathered what little belongings they had. They maneuvered around one another in silence, as though the disbelief still clung to their vocal cords. A lot had happened in twenty-four hours, and now there was even more to resolve. The fatigue was catching up to them.

Eyeing the room over once more, John mumbled, “I think that’s everything.”

He received no response.

Again, Paul was staring at the front page of the paper, now discarded to the chair in which John had slept the night before. His face no longer housed paralyzed shock, but something akin to deep contemplation. The headline had this uncanny ability to rope its reader in.

“Alright?” John prompted gently.

He blinked, snapping the thread that joined his deceased and living selves. With a small smile, he reassured, “Yeah…ready?”

"'Course I'm ready, love." With a hand on Paul's shoulder, John let it slip down to meet his own, fingers brushing against Paul's. "Let's get you out of here."

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading; we'd love your feedback on this bigger project ♡
> 
> [TheLoveBugsy's tumblr](https://hide-your-bugs-away.tumblr.com)
> 
> [Unchained_Daisychain's tumblr](https://unchaineddaisychain.tumblr.com)
> 
> (connie, major thanks to you for tackling this with me. I think our writing styles have meshed wonderfully and I'm excited to continue this gay adventure lol)


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